


Adeste Fideles

by funkybeyondbelief



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Christmas, Gen, Hymns, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, fantine gets a hug, poor fantine y'all, she deserves a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funkybeyondbelief/pseuds/funkybeyondbelief
Summary: "She turned her head towards the sound, looking up at its source with wide eyes. Marguerite stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, staring down at her pityingly. Fantine looked back down. She no longer had a thimble with which to work, and so the pad of her middle finger was bloodied and raw."Or:Fantine returns home on Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Fantine & Marguerite (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Adeste Fideles

The light had long since dwindled by the time Fantine was making her way back to her room. She had taken the muddy, cold trek to the garrison to deposit a number of shirts she made, and the meager coins she received for her labor clinked heavily in her pocket. Her shawl, which was little more than a threadbare blanket, had been pulled up to cover her shorn head. She shivered with every step she took, for her chest was full of ice and her shoes were full of mud. 

The regular sounds of the night subsided as Fantine approached the church, whose doors were flung open and washing the street with the warm glow of candlelight. She heard the choir preparing for mass, and before the church steps a bubbling pot of soup sat suspended over a fire. Here she stopped, seeing nuns serving soup to the masses who were huddled together around the heat. 

One such nun pressed a bowl and spoon into Fantine’s chapped hands, and the warmth permeating through the wood enticed her as she brought it gratefully to her lips. It was a hearty vegetable and meat soup and even though it burned her mouth and throat, she ate with relish until her spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl.

She moved out of the way of the church entrance and closer to the fire, whose radiating heat was so unfamiliar it seemed almost to burn her. A log was dislodged and fell to pieces at Fantine’s feet, and a burning ember danced through the air and landed on the tattered hem of her dress.

With a cry, she jumped back and batted at her skirt. In her haste, she stepped on the toes of a small child behind her.

The little girl, clinging to the folds of her mother’s dress, looked up at Fantine through the crush of people. Her face was dirty and her arms were thin where they poked out from her shawl. Fantine smiled down at the girl in apology, and her mother turned to look.

The mother was young, younger than Fantine, with a linen cap that barely contained her mass of dark hair. She looked at Fantine carefully.

“Your child is beautiful,” Fantine said, in lieu of a greeting. 

The mother frowned and placed a protective hand against her girl’s back. “Thank you.”

“I have--” Fantine cut off as a bout of coughing wracked her body. The mother stared, owl-eyed, until she continued. “I have a little girl, too,” she finished once she could breathe once again. “They are wonderful at this age.”

“Yes.” The woman backed away slowly, pulling her daughter along with her. “I must be getting back, now. Merry Christmas.” With that, she turned and hurried down the street.

“Goodness, is it Christmas already?” Fantine mused. She turned back to the fire, extending brittle fingers towards the warmth. As she shook the chill off, her eyes fell on a man standing in front of the church steps greeting people as they shuffled inside. Her heart plummeted into the pit of her stomach.

The mayor was wearing a fine wool coat with a fur collar turned up against the wind. His hands were adorned with warm leather gloves. Fantine felt a strong urge to curse at him. She turned away and continued the trek home.

Her room was dark and cold when she returned to it, the walls shuddering with every gust of wind. She went to her bed by the window and picked up a shirt half full of pins to continue sewing. A sliver of moonlight illuminated her work as she began, but the cold made her hands rattle against one another and her stitches grew wide and uneven. She pricked her index finger with nearly every prod of the needle, and tiny drops of blood soaked into the rough muslin. The moon slipped behind a cloud and Fantine was shrouded in darkness. With an infuriated cry, she threw the shirt down and banged her fist against the window.

She sank to her knees on the ground, curling up into a ball. After several long moments of haggard breathing, she pressed herself up into something resembling a sitting position with her back pressed against the wall and her legs splayed out in front of her like those of a broken doll. She groped blindly about in the darkness until her fingers closed around soft fabric and she pulled the shirt up into her lap. With trembling movements, she folded it roughly and tossed it over the side of a chair. The darkness would allow for no more sewing that night. Rubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands, she was just about to rise to her feet when she heard the reluctant creak of the door opening.

She turned her head towards the sound, looking up at its source with wide eyes. Marguerite stood in the doorway with her arms crossed, staring down at her pityingly. Fantine looked back down. She no longer had a thimble with which to work, and so the pad of her middle finger was bloodied and raw. 

Marguerite sighed and went beside her, squatting down on her haunches with an elaborate groaning to-do. She wrapped an arm and then two around Fantine’s gaunt frame and tucked her against her bosom.

Fantine startled at the sudden warmth, and she found her eyes welling up with tears.

Her cries were terrible things: painful, wheezing sobs that seized her body and left her convulsing and gasping for breath. She began to cough, choking on her tears as though they were trying to drown her. And through this Marguerite held her tightly, rocking back and forth gently and pressing kisses against her rough head. The music of the church choir, picked up by the wind, could be heard faintly in the little room. It worked its way through the cracks in the walls, surrounding the two women and curling up beside them. 

_Pro nobis egenum et fœno cubantem,_

_Piis foveamus amplexibus._

As Fantine’s wails dwindled into whimpers, and from there into silence, Marguerite did not loosen her grip on the poor girl’s exhausted figure. 

_Venite adoremus_

She only continued to rock, shushing quietly and warming Fantine’s hands between her own. 

_Venite adoremus_

Outside a snowfall had begun as the moon emerged from behind the clouds.

_Venite adoremus,_

_Dominum_

**Author's Note:**

> The hymn sung by the choir at the end is the titular Adeste Fidelis. The verses quoted translate approximately to:
> 
> May we warm him, needy and lying on hay,  
> With our pious embraces  
> (...)  
> O come, let us adore him  
> O come, let us adore him  
> O come, let us adore him,  
> Christ the Lord
> 
> Thank you kindly to the dears in the Saint-Merry writing club who gave me feedback that was ever so helpful. Do leave a comment letting me know what you think of this rather lachrymose Yuletide tale, or you can reach me on Tumblr @funkybeyondbelief. Have a very merry Christmas if you celebrate and if not, I hope your day is merry nonetheless.


End file.
